


An enigma of anger and yearning spelt in scars

by Cereal2306



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Violence, F/F, adding angst because, glimmer and bow don't really do much tbh, peak bloodthirsty catra, wow does this get dark yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25045483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cereal2306/pseuds/Cereal2306
Summary: You wonder if Adora sees your unease, the twitches of your ear and grinding of your teeth as the aftermath of red lightning still blurs the periphery of your vision, your fur on end from the humming static inflicted upon you minutes before. Metal rolls on your tongue, the bloody and electrifying copper serving as an after effect that haunts your taste buds, and you know that a familiar bone deep exhaustion will soon set in.You are so tired.//Or: Canon divergence where instead of opening the portal in s3, Catra tries to kill Shadow Weaver
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 102





	An enigma of anger and yearning spelt in scars

**Author's Note:**

> written partially because i think catra's dynamic with shadow weaver is so interesting, but mostly because i hate shadow weaver and there aren't enough fics where she dies a horrible death

“Catra, please don’t!” Adora begs.

_Begs._

Adora, unmovable, iron-willed Adora, stubborn to the point of stupidity and unshakeable in her heroic need to maintain an independent front. The glorified princess whose fears and desires dance behind a façade of strength and unfaltering reliability, who does not need ask nor plead when she possesses the power to take and have and _win_.

Adora, who has structured her life around proving herself and earning praise through whatever means required, who would no doubt sacrifice her own life if it meant fulfilling orders or this glorified _destiny_ , the very one that will apparently save Etheria but ironically forsake your own life. Adora who takes no handouts or assistance, even from friends.

(Friends who just want to save her, who cover for her then search for her then find her amidst a ruined settlement, friends who are betrayed and left as magic tangs the air and she grows and becomes _her_ , becomes _other_ , friends who are abandoned and unwanted and-

You are not friends.)

This same Adora, strung up and desperate - she _begs_.

She begs for _you_.

And perhaps you do not want to see her die, for without the fighting and war and constant death your life would be awfully dull, just a haze of leadership and orders and climbing ranks that once blurred together on chalkboards, back when you were children in the same classrooms that taught you to wield vengeance like a weapon.

(You would rather vengeance to her armament, a sword presented as a beacon of hope and glory, as if you cannot see the betrayal that wraps itself on the blade, bleeding where it twines along the edges with the remnants of an unrequited affection and a fate inclined to wreak havoc.)

Or perhaps there is a small, insignificant fraction of yourself that still wants her, still craves her warmth and softness and honey smoked voice like it is an addiction, the part of your tarnished soul that dances with murmurs of fondness. Maybe it is the tenderness that still rests below the callouses of your heart, a tenderness that whispers adoration in a language of rare dreams, that pulls you to a stop – that freezes the movement in your arm and dulls the noise in your ears until you can focus on nothing but a final decision.

(Perhaps you falter with a fear that with this possibly dooming change you threaten ending the lives that bring you so much strife, that treat you to the punishment you deserve; maybe you do not pull the lever to ensure the continuation of battle and pain that deprecates you in all the ways you have earnt.

You dismiss this reasoning for it is too sad – even for you – to purposefully refuse a potentially war-ending strategy in favour of your own suffering, consequence of a self-hatred that has driven many a nameless soldier to their death.)

Your hand hovers, fingers jerking with the urge to end and hurt and let the world burn, shaking with a warped sense of righteousness that conflicts with your compulsion for victory as adrenaline thrums through your veins.

You wonder if Adora sees your unease, the twitches of your ear and grinding of your teeth as the aftermath of red lightning still blurs the periphery of your vision, your fur on end from the humming static inflicted upon you minutes before. Metal rolls on your tongue, the bloody and electrifying copper serving as an after effect that haunts your taste buds, and you know that a familiar bone deep exhaustion will soon set in.

You are so tired.

(Is Adora not tired? Does the sword weigh her down with the mass of expectation that rests on its blade, dragging her into restless dreams as slumber sits heavy on her chest? Or are you alone in your fatigue, relying on nothing but anger and fight-or-flight to sustain yourself?)

You hear nothing but the drumming of your own heartbeat in your ears, waves crashing down following each echo as you lower your arm, still trembling with rage and want and fury and the betrayals that have ruined you. She is looking at you, no longer pleading for the planet’s mercy, mouth hanging slightly agape as her eyes meet yours through the haze.

You see confusion and thanks and caution coiling around her pupils, and you briefly wish you had it in you to stay, to forgive and beg acceptance in return, to make amends and heal alongside her.

Yet you are beyond absolution, and the banners of your pride may wave in shreds but you still retain enough dignity to set your jaw strong and feed indifference into the eye contact you share.

(A younger you would smirk, arrogance meeting that foolish hope in the gaze that dances between your pairing, would make sly comments that fall back on memories predating the loss of both lives and personal morality.

These days the thought of softening blows and bloodlust with childhood jokes and mocking flirtation is so distant from your present self that it seems almost abstract to you.)

You feel the surging of power behind you, the scent of darkness and manipulation that has stained your very essence alight in the air. It juxtaposes the hero bound against the wall opposite with a contrast so profound a more artistic soul might label it poetic, and you turn your head slightly to follow the source of such corruption.

Shadow Weaver faces away from you, red cackling along her limbs and cloak blowing behind her, dark magic poisoning the surrounding atmosphere. Adora’s allies – _Shadow Weaver’s_ allies – stand beside her, wielding bow and sorcery respectively, and the former cries out as a falling pillar graces the air nearby.

The shining one is gripped by your old mentor, and as you watch, her face contorts in a discomfort bordering on pain as her power is leeched from within. You cannot find it within you to pity her, marking her as much of a fool as you for trusting a monster so devious with her abilities, and there is a comfort in knowing that you are not alone in falling for the deceit of the only maternal figure you have ever known.

She reeks of treachery and a cruelty that glossed your youth with pain, and the surge of fury that overcomes you does not take you by surprise.

Adora is talking now, useless words dulling with the sudden focus that enraptures you, and if she vocalises any knowledge of your intentions you are unaware of it.

Her voice is a buzzing tone fading as you take one step away from the lever, then two, then multiple leaps that exercise your feline agility, vaulting over collapsed beams and the wreckage these intruders have left. Your claws are unsheathed, hooking into crevices between layers of metal and propelling yourself forward, and your lips have curled to form an animalistic snarl.

There is a bloodlust thrilling you, a cry for death driving you because you _know_ that - despite all the rage you feel for her, no matter how much suffering she has dealt you - Adora deserves to live, and if this portal condemns her to her grave you fear you will scratch your heart out and hollow your own chest. You _know_ that, running deeper than war and past conflicts, there is only a shared hatred for _her_ , for the woman who drove you to madness and Adora to a willingness to self-sacrifice. It is she who will be dealt vengeance, after countless betrayals stemming from her manipulation, and you are now less than an arm’s length away.

You make a final pounce.

The boy with the arrows sees you, but by the time the projectile flies your claws are embedded in flesh, ripping through the clothing that covers her back and sinking deep into the sparse tissue of her shoulders. Shadow Weaver falls forward, hoarse shriek escaping her as blood wells and gurgles where your fingers dig, flooding down her cape.

She hits the ground with her elbows locked as she curls her arms inwards in pain, and once she releases the hand of the young princess she was clinging to, the evil in the air dilutes and becomes less suffocating, her body losing its tension and feeling unnervingly frail as you perch on her back.

You curl your hands as you would to form a fist, claws shredding meat as they flex inwards and rip sinew, and she flails with little traction on the ground, unable to match you in combat without the aid of her lightning. You grin in a frenzy, feeling your canines nick your lower lip as the traitor writhes beneath you.

(You can hear Adora’s muted screaming, and the knowledge that she will mourn this death makes you ache, as if Shadow Weaver’s electricity never rattled your skull and left you shaking for hours when you were nothing but a _child_.)

Then an arrow is driven into your shoulder with brutal force, and you roar with rage as the head pushes through flesh and breaks the skin of your back, ripping through clothing and impaling the softness beside your collarbone. You feel the metal point protrude a few inches left of your spine, and as you stumble backwards your eyesight focuses on the feathers masterfully fletched onto the end of the shaft, the background blurring into obscure shapes.

The agony forces you to warp your torso as you stagger in retreat, twisting in a failed attempt to somehow outmanoeuvre the hideous burn of the wound, yet through your near blindness you still sense the figure approaching, recognising the pure scent of her magic and annoying pitch of voice.

You lash out wildly, fighting to control your panicked gasps as your arm swings towards the princess, the one who drove Adora to leave, and she yelps as your claws make contact and rupture jaggedly through muscle. Where your blow landed you do not know, vision still dark and clouded, but you note the harsh thud of her knees striking the floor and the distinctly male cry that follows – Arrow Boy. His footsteps and the ensuing noise indicate he has collapsed to the ground beside her, likely prioritising his ally’s safety over your skirmish.

He would make a poor soldier.

You straighten as best you can, your breaths steadying slightly as you grit your teeth through your distress, fighting to block out the anguished sounds originating from where Adora must still be tied.

Focus.

Your eyesight is less fractured, and you can make out the cloaked figure attempting to rise from the floor a few metres away, trembling under the strain of her injuries. You know how severe they are – you cut deep, damaging enough tissue to permanently scar – and with the sparkly one panting in an expanding pool of blood, you doubt her sorcery will come to save Shadow Weaver from your wrath.

( _Wrath_ sounds so evil, so hateful – but you are not evil, just a child wronged too many times who in turn wronged others with a passion too intense for meagre revenge, and along the way all the lines have been blurred by spells and brutality and nights spent paralysed by fear of dark silhouettes in corners.

Or perhaps you _are_ evil, and this execution is beyond justice, beyond the righteousness Adora trumpets – if so, your death will come at another’s hands eventually, and with luck it will be just as ruthless as is earned.)

You reach up with your right arm, the one that had been hovering over a lever to end Etheria as you know it only a few moments ago, the one dripping in crimson that darkens the light fur of your forearm; blood that will soon cake and harden into matted strands. You grip the wooden missile firmly, your lower gums swathed in the rustic flavour your canines have drawn, and clench your other fist tightly in on itself before snapping the shaft, wood splintering as the feathered end now rests uselessly in your palm.

You choke down a howl as the arrow moves within you, letting the removed fletching drop out of your hand and reaching up over your shoulder. Your breathing has picked up again, and your eyes remain fixed on the closest presence to a mother you have ever had.

She is gurgling into her own red ichor, rasping breaths into the liquid that collects where her masked face is pressed against the unforgiving metal, her inhales distorted in a similar way to yours.

(Is Adora screaming for you or Sparkles or the Shadows?)

Your forearm rests against your neck as your fingers scramble across your upper back, finding purchase and wrapping themselves around the wood that has speared itself through you. It is slick with blood, small slithers of flesh and fabric caught near the sharpened head, and your stomach contracts unnervingly as you feel your own ruptured insides press against your callouses.

Your fist tightens and you tug slowly, dragging the shaft out of you from behind. You scream through your clenched jaw, feeling the tendons in your neck tense as the thin timber shifts inside of you, rolling against muscle and scraping alongside the bone that you assume to be your clavicle. Once your arm is fully extended, you let the remains of the arrow clatter against the floor, shuddering while cautiously rolling your shoulder back as a fresh wave of blood streams down the sides of your torso, staining your clothing and trickling down your left arm.

You feel the warmth collect at your feet and matt the fur at the base of your tale, while a dull agony pulses through your body and renders you dizzy enough to stumble to the side slightly before regaining your footing.

You spit out red, realising now that your tongue has suffered under the force of your teeth clenching, and feel fluid gurgle in your throat when you attempt to breathe through your mouth.

Pushing your hair out of your face is second nature, but you do not account for the gore that will smear across your forehead and drip down your brow, pricking at your eyeballs. It makes you squeeze your eyelids shut for a few seconds as you sway slightly, attempting to maintain balance as your chest screams with every heave and you fight the sting to your sight.

Your ears are unnervingly focused, perhaps compensating for the black spots of pain and blood that scatter your vision, and you can hear in alarming detail Adora struggling against her bonds, the sound of rope and fabric chafing informing you of her efforts. The one you hurt – _princess_ – is gasping with less fervour now, and you cast your deprived eyesight over to where she lies.

The blurred figure that must be her is leaning on him – he _shot her_ , he shot her with a _fucking arrow_ – for support, and you do not need focused imagery to feel how they both stare at you, how he has another arrow drawn but his shattered breathing indicates he is too shaken to use it, how she whimpers as you cock your head and meet them with near blind eyes. The _fear_ that they reek of smarts your nose and intoxicates you with pride and desperation and spite.

You will not kill them.

You turn your head, and do not acknowledge the relieved exhale from the boy with the arrows.

You look forward, tainted eyesight and all, to see how Shadow Weaver lies still, whether having accepted her fate or reached an exhaustion too intense to attempt to stand again, and it is only from her strangled wheezing, face down in her own blood, that you know she has not yet bled out.

You grin something manic, claws angled by your sides, and stagger forward.

“ _Catra!_ ” Adora screams, voice hoarse and desperate in ways you have never heard it before.

(That voice whispering comfort as children, warding away nightmares and shadows and dreams of waking alone with a tone glazed in sweetness, a raw affection soothed by the tenderness only soft naivety can fabricate)

You still, one shoulder hunched above the other to manage the pain, and tilt your head in her direction.

The ties remain in position, her attempts to undo them having clearly failed, and her worryingly choked inhales make your ear twitch.

Momentarily you are thankful for your lack of sight for, although you cannot see them, you are sure that tears well in her eyes, maybe already streaking salt down her cheeks, and if there’s anything you hate more than yourself in this world, it’s when Adora cries.

She says nothing more, both of you knowing that she does not need to, and as you look in her direction you know she is picking you apart, taking in the blood that freely flows - barely slowed by your clothing - as well as the agony that laces your posture. You feel her stare at the slight shake to your hands, covered in red that will soon crust, and at the tangled mess that is your hair, plastered to your forehead by the same gore that impairs your vision.

You sway slightly, unstable under the weight of her gaze, and your head grows ever heavier as your wound leaks and you approach the death of your adrenaline rush.

No matter what good Shadow Weaver may have done for Adora, you have not slept through the night in years, and her death seems the sanest way to avenge wrongs done to you. Either you open the portal or you put her down, and only one of the two options seems secure in its result.

You turn away from her, the stupid hero who ruined and fragmented and saved your life, and pretend her broken sob doesn’t wreck your twisted heart like only she could.

(You doubt surviving the night is in your cards anyway, what with the likely internal bleeding and inability to breathe without flinching.)

You stagger towards the prone body, dulling Adora’s aching cries as you focus on your target, lumbering past the injured one and the Arrow Boy whose arms she still lies in, paying little notice to how they track each of your aching, unbalanced steps with a caution reserved for predators.

You wonder who else is watching, whether Scorpia or Hordak can see you abandoning the mission for your own revenge – your _bloodlust_. How long until they find out what you did to Entrapta, how many lies you have layered to serve yourself, how you have fought in this war not for the good of the Horde but for the fall of your rival?

(Are rivals supposed to dance the way she did with you? You doubt it.)

You step into the pool of Shadow Weaver’s blood, and it is unthinkably unnerving to see her so capable of such a humane practise as bleeding, and you cannot help but note how sad and weak she appears, curled in on herself and unable to move as her wounds pin her to the ground.

Her fingers spasm, uselessly twitching as you approach, a panic to her movements that you have never associated with her, and her stained attire cloaks over her, garbs of fabric painted in her suffering. She seems so much smaller now that you stand over her, dwarfed by the loom of your shadow.

(Dreams of lightning that you awake from to meet dark figures creeping along the walls, lurking by your bed - following you as long as she commands them to, murmuring croons of horror in your ears as you lie petrified.

 _Her_ shadows, haunting your periphery as you stand round war tables, ghosting the air behind you as you meet sword with claws in battle, stalking you with silent footsteps that leave your tail twitching with unease.)

If you were kinder, still kindling naivety in your ribcage, then you would be disturbed by the state of the hollowed and helpless woman who lies before you, too revolted by the notion of killing the unarmed and destitute to condemn her.

If you were raised with a touch more compassion, then perhaps putting your own mother down like you would a lame dog would revolt you enough to spare her from the slaughter and bloodthirst you itch with.

(You were raised with hands wrapped around your throat, some whispering of electricity and others of bruises and closed fists – you saw no compassion other than the clothes on your back and scarce rations, your lone companion living blind to the severity of your punishments.)

You will not let her live.

You drop to one knee, grunting through the consequence rhythm of pain, and heave her from where she reposes, face down, onto her side, gripping the loose clothing of her torso and dragging her over, her head lolling back with the momentum.

You lean over her slightly, having to rest on your right arm to balance with your unwounded shoulder as you pant, vision still tainted with clots of red and black. With your other hand you grasp the side of her head, your claws digging into scalp and breaking skin as your desperation pushes you beyond caution of your own strength.

(This is the woman who ruined you, broke and beat and manipulated you into becoming _this_ , nothing but a vengeful beast hell bent on death. She deserves to die, to suffer and ache and twist in the agony you mingled with as a child, a _child_.)

You snarl with the strain of lifting her head up, your obscured sight meeting her half-lidded eyes.

She grunts an incomprehensible few words, the escaping sound drowned by the gurgling of crimson plasma from deep within her throat, and your arm trembles under duress.

You tense as Adora roars behind you.

You hear a shredding that you assume is her bindings being torn, and a call from the bow boy as determined thuds sound. Without your feline capabilities she must climb the fallen pillars you so easily manoeuvred, and this buys you the seconds needed to commit to your decision.

Her mask is stained from the blood she had been rasping into, splattered with the evidence of her own injury, and as you slam her head down with all the strength your wrecked body can muster, it shatters, cracks spiderwebbing out from where her skull impacted the ground.

You release her, claws removed from tangles of hair and skin, and moments after you let her go, fresh gore from the indented skull leaking into her pool of blood, a force no human could muster slams into your side, sending your exhausted body flying.

(Cadets sparring in training rooms; wrestling by the lockers as Kyle cheers; soft touches in a bed made of harsh steel; gentle hands winding bandages around furred forearms.

Ruthless impacts as dense muscle meets agile speed; sword nicking tail and claws gracing chin)

Your limp limbs scatter, chest wheezing as you heave on your back, lungs howling for soft cool medicine that refuses to pass your clenched jaw.

The light you see is fading as consciousness is stolen by thrums of agony, pulsations that would have you writhing were it not for the fatigue that overwhelms your senses, blanketing the brutality of the hard surface you rest on and the tingle of blood caught beneath claw and skin.

A ringing in your ears deafens you, and you are no longer aware of Adora, the one who shot you or the princess you hurt.

(Did she deserve the wound you inflicted? To have you permanent on her skin, an enigma of anger and yearning spelt in scars?)

You do not think of Hordak – the _fool_ with too many attachments – nor Scorpia, who deserves more than your cruelty.

You _cannot_ think of Entrapta, of the taser and how she collapsed, of the falsities you wove in the aftermath, dooming her to a slow death.

(Was there no other way? It stung to wound with the same static energy that marred your childhood.)

You fall into the embrace of darkness, a cunning yet comforting absence of light that has been beckoning you for years.

(Without light there are no shadows.)

Shadow Weaver is dead.

(Running your fingers through gilded tresses, caressing her scalp with claws retracted, trusted with the task of detangling and restoring. Children in a shared bunk touching with innocence and affection, purrs vibrating in your chest as she rests so soft on your lap, scents of sweat and sleep and the Horde exploring the familiar musk of sweetness and pride and raw passion that is _Adora_.)

Will she mourn you or the mother you died killing?

(A stolen skiff and whispers of magic that birthed betrayal and lonely nights and cruel dreams; a longing that sits heavy in your chest and makes your hands shake with urges to hold and be held that are never fulfilled.

A bed that is always too cold; the solitary watching of lightning during storms that makes your heart keen for company; the fights that never burn enough to fill the empty spaces between the ladders of your ribs where her fingers should grip, should _possess_ you.)

There is a chill that seeps through your bones, an emptiness that echoes sorrow and vengeance and aches of forbidden tenderness, and the shores of reality feel so distant as you slip back into nothingness that you are sure you will never surface again.

You are gone.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading:0
> 
> i'm honestly not sure if i'll leave this as a one-shot or not?? i'm scared that if i don't end it here i'll end up with another 10 chapters of over the top introspection and trying not to repeat the word 'blood' too many times lol
> 
> also i didn't know what to do with gimmer and bow, and i feel like you can tell that i ignored them then realised they needed something to do about 2k in and had to rewrite
> 
> comments and kudos appreciated :))


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